LAYLA'S POV
FBI???
Oh my God. I'm doomed.
I should've listened to Denzel. Or my gut. Or followed every warning my mother ever whispered into me.
None of this would've happened. The thought slammed through me as I attacked the keyboard of my old, ragged laptop, fingers flying, desperate to cut the connection before the trace locked onto me. The screen flickered, jammed, and then went completely black. Maybe I stopped something. Maybe I didn't. Hope was all I had.
I froze at the window of our tiny apartment, staring out at the glowing vibrance of Atlanta, the city humming like it had no idea my world was collapsing. My reflection in the glass looked pale, wild, terrified.
"Layla?"
Anna's small, shaky voice drifted from her room.
"Is everything okay?"
She must've heard the frantic tapping, the muffled curses, the way panic leaked into the air even though I tried to hide it.
"Yes, Anna. Go back to sleep."
My voice came out calm, almost steady, but my throat burned.
Tonight was never supposed to be like this. Losing my freedom, putting Anna's life in more danger, losing the only man who had loved me—all in a single night—was not part of any plan. Fate clearly had its own twisted script.
I didn't know what was coming next, but I knew one thing with absolute certainty: even if I shut the trace in time, I had to protect Anna.
No matter what.
I walked to her room with the lie ready on my tongue. I told her I got a job I had to start in the morning. That she needed to go to the care home for a while. That it was "best for us."
She wasn't happy, but she agreed—because she knew I worked myself to the bone for us.
"Don't worry, Layla. I know this is for the best," she whispered. Her voice trembled, but she hid it. She always tried to hide it.
"And… you'll visit, right?"
She tried to sound casual, but I heard everything she didn't say.
"Yes. Of course."
I lied again.
We waited for the night pickup, fingers tangled tightly, crying quietly like we used to after Mama died. We remembered her—her strength, her brilliance, the way she used to hold us when the world felt too heavy.
But I cried for more than Anna leaving. I cried for everything else crumbling inside me.
When the van arrived, neither of us wanted to let go. But we had to. I stood there on the sidewalk until they disappeared into the endless stream of Atlanta traffic, and only when their taillights vanished did I let myself breathe again.
Back in my room, I wiped every incriminating file from my laptop and headed straight to Club Orca—the only place loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
Inside, the air was thick with stale beer, grease, and dim lights. People danced, laughed, celebrated birthdays, wins, or just freedom. Meanwhile, my life was burning down.
I sucked in a deep breath. If I couldn't fix anything, maybe I could numb it.
I went straight to the bar, chaos clinging to me like smoke.
"Stale or beer?" the bartender asked. Those were the only two things I could afford.
"Shots of tequila. Keep 'em coming," I muttered, sharper than I meant to.
She didn't react. Maybe she could see through the attitude to the wreck underneath.
By the fourth shot, the world blurred just enough for my heartbeat to slow—until something shifted. A presence. A shadow. A heat.
Someone walked in behind me, settling two tables away. I felt him before I saw him. His scent cut through the greasy air—clean sandalwood layered with something darker, expensive.
I turned slightly, eyes catching his silhouette.
Black shirt stretched over broad shoulders. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Understated wealth, the kind that didn't need logos to announce itself. His face was all sharp lines and cold beauty—straight nose, defined jaw, dark hair styled with effortless precision.
But his eyes…
Pale blue-gray. Icy. Calm. Dangerous.
They swept the room once, then locked onto me.
My breath hitched.
He looked familiar.
His stare slid over me like a slow touch. I lifted my glass and took a deliberate sip, pretending I didn't feel my pulse racing.
He didn't look away.
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, challenge… recognition?
He ordered a bourbon neat and something else I'd never heard of. His voice was low, steady, controlled. A man used to being obeyed.
For minutes, we didn't speak. He didn't look at anyone else. I felt him—like gravity.
Then:
"Is this seat taken?"
His voice was closer. He'd moved. He was beside me now.
"It is now."
Sarcasm wrapped around my words like armor.
His mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"You look like you're waiting for someone. Or running from someone."
"Maybe I'm just drinking," I shot back.His gaze slid to my glass.
"You've been tracing the rim for fifteen minutes. That's what people do when they're having a loud argument with themselves."
My stomach tightened. Too accurate. Too sharp. Too… him.
"You're very observant for a stranger," I said coolly.
"A stranger is just someone whose story you haven't heard yet."
He took a slow sip. "My name is Micheal."
Just Micheal.
The way he said it felt intimate. Dangerous.
"Linda," I lied.
He repeated it, his voice softer, almost respectful.
"And tell me, Linda… what's the argument about? The one in your head."
His directness pierced straight through my defenses.
"Impossible choices," I murmured. "Doing something wrong for the right reasons."
He studied me like he could see through my bones.
"The world isn't divided into good choices and bad ones," he said. "It's divided into the choices you survive… and the ones you don't."
"That's confusing," I said with a smirk.
"It's clear."He turned slightly, his knee brushing mine. Just a touch—but it sent heat spiraling through me. He didn't move away.
"Sometimes the only way out of a maze is to stop searching for the exit," he murmured, "and just feel the walls."
He wasn't talking about mazes anymore.
And we both knew it.
"And what do you feel right now, Micheal?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
His eyes darkened, slow and deliberate.
"I feel like I just met a woman who looks ready to conquer the world… or burn it to ashes." His voice dipped lower.
"And I can't look away from the fire."
He reached out—not for my hand, but for the glass I held. His fingers brushed mine. Heat shot up my arm. I froze.
That's when I saw it.
The scar on his hand.
Recognition slammed into me.
Does he know me too?
The words whispered out of me, too quiet for even the music to swallow.
Please no. Not him. Not tonight. Not like this.
Not when everything in my life was already unraveling.